FourLettered Words
by physixXx
Summary: Before Harry and Draco, there was another SlytherinGryffindor love that defied the odds and overcame obstacles. From pain to redemption, this is their story! SLASH!
1. Chapter 1

**1.**

Oliver Wood never saw the likes of Hogwarts. He had been told by family, friends, and friends of family that it was a glorious, wondrous place. Words could not describe it despite everyone's attempt to do just that. Ever since he got his Hogwarts Letter, he had been dreaming of the place with images of what it would look like on a constant mental rotation.

But nothing could prepare him for the majesty that was Hogwarts.

When the boat carrying the first-years turned around the narrow bend of large rocks, the castle, perched atop a high mountain with its many turrets and towers, illuminated the sky with its sparkling windows.

Everyone was quiet, slapped speechless by the very sight of their new home. Everyone, that is, except the tall, spindly redhead boy with the pronounced nose who befriended Oliver on the Hogwarts Express.

"I got to see it when I came to visit Charlie, my brother. He's a phenomenal Quidditch player... did I mention that?"

Yes, he had. Several times, in fact.

"Anyway, I've seen it before," Percy Weasley continued, "at the Head Boy ceremony. My other brother, Bill, is Head Boy... did I mention that?"

Yes, he did. Several times, in fact.

"I hope I get to be head boy..."

He prattled on, but his voice trailed to virtual nothingness. Oliver could only hear the singing, the wondrous melody of magic as it filled his lungs, ears, and eyes. Wide-eyed wonderment etched across his face, Oliver shuddered as they sailed closer to the castle, passing a wall of ivory that hid the wide opening in the cliff face and revealing just how immense Hogwarts truly was.

His dreams paled in comparison.

Oliver did not remember stepping off the boat. Suddenly, he found himself walking up a flight of stone steps towards an oak door big enough to allow two dragons plenty of room to enter.

Dragons...

'What if there were dragons here?' Oliver wondered, in a slight panic, 'What if there were goblins under the bed, orcs behind each door, or trolls in the loo?' Oliver took another deep look at their escort, a big, oaf of man with bushy hair on his head and face. He seemed jolly enough, at first, but now... Oliver was not so sure.

He inched closer to Percy, who seemed to stretch even taller. If anyone knew what to expect, it would be him; . He did have two older brothers here, after all.

"The first-years are here! New meat!" yelled Damien Weatherbee, a third-year of questionable scruples, as he rushed up the stairs out of the dungeon with a fleet of other Slytherins – including one Marcus Flint.

Marcus was a simple lad, unfortunate in his mien. His brow furrowed on a regular basis, as if he was in a constant state of confusion, and his teeth looked more as if they belonged to some ragged beast than on a boy of almost thirteen. His frame was sturdy enough, certainly. His olive skin was deep and rich, a light mahogany. He had the air of a yob or one of those surly hooligan lads one hears about on Muggle London's football games.

The Slytherin boys made their way to Grand Foyer just as the great, oak doors swung open. They barked and bellowed as Hagrid, the Groundskeeper, ushered in the new students. Nervousness coloured their cheeks and glossed their eyes.

"Oi, look it here," the second-year Slytherin named Jakob Lestaire called out, "looks like Hogwarts started letting squibs in after all!"

A round of laughter boomed through the halls. Hagrid waved them off with a dismissive hand, "Ach, tha's 'nuff out o' you, lot. Not'ing t'see 'ere! Move 'long, then!"

Marcus peered over Damien's shoulder to get a better view.

"Oi!" Damien huffed, delivering an elbow to Marcus' ribcage, "Geddorf me, troll!"

Rubbing the soar spot, Marcus retorted with a frown, "Don't call me 'troll', Weatherbee."

Damien turned on his heel, scowled hard at Marcus and jabbed him in the chest with his finger.

"Mind your place, troll," he warned, adding even more derision to the offending word.

Suddenly, the quick, shrill voice of Professor McGonagall cut the air behind the Slytherins, "That's quite enough of that, boys. Off to the Great Hall with you."

The boys scurried down the stairs, almost tripping over themselves as they ran past the first-years, making sure to give them an intimidating glower as they passed them. Everyone but Percy seemed affected.

Damien, Jakob, Marcus and the others made their way to the Great Hall, immediately finding their seat. Some second-years were sitting in their accustomed spots. Damien gave Marcus 'the look' and Marcus, nodding, yomped over to the unsuspecting boys and stood. Towering over them like a basilisk ready to devour them whole, his message was clear: move or be removed.

Without so much as a word, the boys quickly gathered their belongings and scuttered off to the other end of the table. Damien and the other older Slytherins took their seats, with Marcus beating Jakob to the seat beside Damien, who pushes him nearly off the seat.

"Food chain, Marcus!" he exclaimed, looking disdainful.

Marcus scowled, pushing the boy next to him out of his seat.

The first-years made their way in front of the Sorting Hat, Marcus eyed Oliver, with his slight features and thin lips. His shoulder-length shaggy hair, riddled with thick, soft curls and natural highlights, seemed to glow as if made from magic.

"Oi, she's a pretty one," Marcus announces.

"Too bad she's too young," Damien adds, though he does not disagree, a good sign for Marcus.

"Blimey!" Jakob gasps, "Not _another_ Weasley!"

Pointing at the tall, thin redhead standing dangerously close to Oliver, he continued, "Oh, lookie. He's putting the moves on your girl, Marcus."

The others laughed. To his credit, Marcus seemed nonplussed.

They took turns razing the first-years as they were sorted into their prospective houses. Even the Slytherins were not protected from the taunts.

"Wood, Oliver."

The 'pretty girl' stepped up to the hat. Marcus and Jakob burst out laughing, looking with shocked expressions at Marcus, whose brow furrowed deep.

"Ha! Your 'pretty girl' is a bloke!" Jakob exclaimed between gasps for air.

"Hey, everyone! Marcus fancies the new boy!"

"The troll's a shirt lifter!" Damien guffawed as he held his stomach for fear of bursting.

Marcus finally turned a deep shade of rose, breathing deep and slow as the crowd around him chuckled mercilessly.

"Shut up," he muttered, but few, if any, heard him.

"Gryffindor!" the Sorting Hat boomed.

The boisterous laughter of the Slytherin table is quickly drowned out by the exuberant cheers next to them. Marcus watched Oliver hop from the seat and run to the Gryffindor table. Immediately, he was embraced by beaming students of varying years, including one Charlie Weasley, who grasped Oliver's shoulder, gave him a firm, side hug, and whispered something in his ear. Oliver blushed. Even as the cheers died down, people continued to congratulate Oliver, patting him on the back or ruffling his hair until Dumbledore held up his hands for silence.

Over at the Slytherin table, Marcus was still the crux of some grand joke. He was not even a day into the school year and he had already been made a fool by some squib of a first-year with a poofter name. Marcus already knew he would make Oliver pay, never mind that Oliver had no idea what he did to deserve it. In just a few short minutes, Marcus Wood came to the realization...

... He hated Oliver Wood.


	2. Chapter 2

Even under normal circumstances, Hogwarts would have been a fright for Oliver, with its darkened corridors, creepy portraits that scowled down at the students and creaky walls that seemed to talk to him. Even the Fat Friar, the jolly Hufflepuff ghost, gave the impression of something dastardly and base. Sleep would have been next-to-impossible, even without the added excitement of start-of-term classes.

As if worried that his schedule would change just like the stairwells leading to the house Common Rooms, Oliver repeatedly reached for the nightstand next to his four-poster, grabbing his schedule and reading it over and over under the light of the moon.

Monday

Transfiguration – McGonagall

Charms – Flitwick

Double Potions – Snape

Oh, the things Oliver would learn! And he wanted to learn it all, to be the best wizard he could be! He would keep his nose clean, bury himself in his books, and learn everything there is to know about magick!

Morning came quick. Buried deep under his duvet, Oliver felt hands pushing on him and the distinctive high-pitched, squeaky voice of Percy Weasley piercing his sleep.

"Come on, Oliver... we'll be late for breakfast!"

"Sod off!" Oliver replied.

"Very well! You asked for it," Percy said, warningly.

Suddenly, Percy shouted _'contremisco' _and the four-poster began to shake violently, until Oliver fell bodily to the floor.

Oliver stood in a huff, after detangling himself from his duvet and sheets.

"Wotcha do that for?" he demanded.

With an insufferable smirk on his face, Percy simply walked out of the room saying, "Now that you're up, _maybe_ we can get some food before it's all gone."

**§**

"Where d'you learn that spell?"

Oliver's anger towards Percy faded quickly enough; food tends to do that to a lad. There were toast and preserves, eggs and porridge, pumpkin juice, and even black pudding and tomato, a Scottish dish that reminded Oliver of home.

Percy even ate prim and proper, dignified like an adult. Already wearing his robes, his sleeves were neatly folded back to minimize creases. Oliver watched him spread marmalade over his toast with grace that reminded him of tales of royalty. He looked at his own hands, clutching the butter knife as though he were ready to stab a wild beast for its meat.

"Oh, 'contremisco', you mean?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, you tend to pick things up when Bill and Charlie are around."

Percy looked up as if gazing at something far off. An expression of slight trepidation stretched across his face.

"I dread the day The Twins come to Hogwarts..."

"The twins?"

"Oh, yes. Fred and George. They're nine, now. Be here in three years."

He shook his head, ruefully before continuing, "But Bill and Charlie are always one for a bit of a goof." He turned to face Oliver, leaning in close. "Wait until you see them play table wars."

"Table wars?" Oliver asked with a mouthful of sausage.

"I'm sure you'll see soon enough," Percy said with a snigger.

**§**

"Transfiguration is one of the most powerful and complex disciplines of magick you will ever learn..."

Oliver, Percy, and the rest of the Gryffindors had Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration class with the Ravenclaw first-years. He expected Percy to sit with him. Instead, Penelope Clearwater, a pretty girl with flowing auburn hair, caught his attention. That left Oliver to share his table with Cory Pundis, a stout young man with deep, brown skin and unfortunate breath. Despite the near-pernicious smell, Cory seemed a pleasant enough lad.

The class 'ooh'-ed and 'ahh'-ed as Professor McGonagall transformed her table into a falcon and back again. The majority of the students clutched at their wands, eager to learn and anxious to get started.

"Don't think you will be doing things of that sort so early in your education," Professor McGonagall advised, "you must first learn the small things before you move on to grander demonstrations."

Cory's arm shot up in the air. Oliver was glad that only his breath smelled bad.

"Yes, Mr. Pundis?"

"Ma'am, if you please," Cory said, with almost sickening sweet politeness, "My Gran conjures things from thin air... will we learn that?"

"True conjuration is no longer taught at Hogwarts, Mr. Pundis," Professor McGonagall said with a stern, almost disapproving look on her face. "It involves the invoking of spirits to do a wizards' bidding."

She began to pace across the room, each student's gaze locked on her with complete fascination.

"Such a discipline is illegal in Great Britain, although other wizarding countries still partake in it. It is dodgy work, conjuration, fraught with the death and dismemberment of many a man who thought they could control what they brought into this realm... and found, to their dismay that they could not."

She stood still as she surveyed the room. The dramatic effect was not lost on the children, some of which shuddered at the notion of being ripped to shreds by angry demons or impish devils. Oliver sank in his seat.

With more ebullience and a slight smile, Professor McGonagall continued, "No, Mr. Pundis. What your grandmother does is a highly advanced form of transfiguration. She simply transforms air into a more solid object. Like so..."

Professor McGonagall held out her wand, waved her wand over it, and whispered "_Caelum Scopulus_." The air around her outstretched palm crackled with energy that began to collapse on itself. An instant later, a small rock smaller than a fist rested in her hand.

If one looked carefully, they would have seen a slight blush pepper Professor McGonagall's cheeks as the class erupted into a riotous applause. Even Percy looked duly impressed, when he was not looking at Penelope.

Professor McGonagall held up her hands to quiet the class. Yet, the echo of a smile remained.

"If you do well class, study hard and practice, you may make it into my Advance Transfiguration class during your sixth and seventh years. That is when you'll learn how to switch from one matter state to another – gas to liquid without heat, liquid to matter without cold, and so forth. But, I only accept the very best students in my advanced classes," she went on, with intent, "So ... they're will be no monkeying around from you lot."

**§**

Some time later, Professor McGonagall dismissed the class. The excitement of the start of the lessons did not last. Their attempts to change a cotton ball into a marble were futile, with the exception of Percy and a few other Ravenclaws. Oliver felt slightly discouraged; he managed to change the colour of the cotton ball to a nice shade of blue, but the texture remained soft and fibrous.

He stood up to leave with Percy and Cory when Professor McGonagall called out to him.

"Mr. Wood, if I may have a word with you, please?"

Oliver looked at Percy and Cory, who both managed to give him a forlorn look.

"Never you mind, young men," Professor McGonagall admonished, "I shall return him in one piece. Carry on."

Percy and Cory skittered off in a hurry as Oliver stepped up to Professor McGonagall's desk. Her stern expression grew soft.

"Mr. Wood, how is Odhran fairing these days?" she asked.

"My dad? Oh, he's fine. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason," she replied as she stood, shuffling papers around.

Oliver got the distinct impression that she was nervous.

"How do you know my father, Professor?"

"Oh, we were in school together, right here at Hogwarts. Same year, in fact."

"Gee, that's brilliant," Oliver gasped, with something akin to awe in his voice.

Professor McGonagall stopped fidgeting about her desk and looked directly into Oliver's eyes. There was a kindness there that Oliver found... innerving.

"I just want you to know that if you ever need anything… anything at all… you have but to ask. Hogwarts is to be your home for the majority of your days for the next seven years and I want you to know that..."

She paused and looked about the room as if searching for something.

"... that you're safe."

Oliver's head bowed. He could not bear to look at her anymore. Instead, his eyes darted around the floor, one of his feet tapping incessantly. Did she know? Did she know Oliver's shame? But, how could she? No one knew!

Oliver released the breath he didn't realize he was holding, steeled himself, and looked up at Professor McGonagall with a smile, "Thanks, Professor. May I be excused?"

She gave another pause, however, this time longer.

"Yes, Mr. Wood. You may go."

Oliver turned, threw his messenger bag over his shoulder, and scurried out the classroom. Before he reached the door, he could have sworn he heard a small sob escape his teacher's lips. Oliver felt that familiar shame wash over him like an angry lover's hands. His eyes began to sting and blink uncontrollably. He bit his tongue to stop himself from crying. He could take many things...

... but pity was not one of them.

**°**


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

"Today, we will learn the theory behind temporal displacement within Charms work. Temporal displacements allow you to do wonderful things to enhance your charm-based spells..."

Professor Flitwick stood in the front of his class on a stack of outdated books and tomes. For the most part, he had the undivided attention of the entire class. Despite his diminutiveness, his squeaky voice, and his goblin-like features, there was no denying his skill and knowledge. He was one of the few Hogwarts professors who could command respect without even trying. Even the Slytherins, who gave the impression that they only respected professors within their own house, held Professor Flitwick in high-esteem. His lectures captivated his students, except Marcus Flint.

Marcus sat in the seat next to Mathis Pritchard, a sturdy slack-jawed lad with coal-black hair and deep grey eyes. Leaning on his elbow, slouched in his chair, Marcus stared at the arched window immediately to his left. His quill continued to scrawl and doodle despite his attention long-since wavering. His eyes darted to his parchment for less than a second before he shifted in his seat, staring overhead. He began counting the web-like cracks on the ceiling, but only made it to thirty-seven before shifting his weight to his other elbow and gawping at his scribbling.

"Flint!" Mathis jeered, elbowing Marcus out of his reverie. "Were you paying attention?"

Marcus scowled in response.

"Sod it all, Flint! I'm not going to get a 'T' in this class because you can't very well pay attention!"

From behind, Hufflepuff Troy Davis leaned over his desk to flout, "Well, waddya expect when you buddy-up with a troll, Pritchard."

Marcus swivelled in his seat, peering at Troy with narrow-eyes. Troy blinked, as if expecting a punch, but did not back down. Indeed, he matched Marcus' derision with a scowl of his own.

"I'm not scared of you, Marcus," he claimed, only slightly convincingly.

"Call me 'troll' one more time and you will be scared of me, Davis," Marcus warned, his voice low and dangerous.

"Whatever," Troy dismissed whilst leaning back into his seat, "flippin' troglox—!"

Troy hardly had time to finish his insult before Marcus lounged at him, practically leaping over the Hufflepuff's table. Troy tried to pull back, but one of Marcus' hands were already grabbing at his throat as the other pounding into his chest.

The closest students jumped from the seats, backing away, while the other students craned their necks to see more. Soon, Marcus and Troy were rolling on the dusty floor and throwing punches, most of which barely made contact despite their close proximity. A chorus of 'fight, fight, fight' reverberated in the room even as Professor Flitwick levitated over to the brawling youths.

"Boys! Boys! Stop that this instant!" he ordered as he hovered above them.

He drew his wand, pointing at Marcus and Troy, and incanted_ "Cedere Sistere!"_

A flash of white light filled the room. As everyone's sight slowly began to return, the other students gawped at Marcus and Troy, who both remained frozen in their pose, teeth gnashed, fists drawn back for a blow, and hate seeping from every pour.

"What... is... happen... ing?" Troy managed to mutter, even though his lips were locked in place.

Professor Flitwick peered down and, with a flick of the wand, pushed the two lads apart. He pointed at Marcus' feet and whispered, "Incedere Head of house."

Marcus' feet began to march in place, as if by its own will. Professor Flitwick folded his arms in front of his diminutive chest and peered at him.

"You will tell Professor Snape that you are to have detention tonight for starting and/or engaging in roughhousing," he ordered, matter-of-factly.

Marcus grunted, but made no attempt to resist as his feet began to walk him towards the door, out of the classroom, and down the steps to the Slytherin dungeons. If Flitwick performed the same spell on Troy and ordered the same punishment, he never found out. He assumed that he did not.

**§**

"... many of you will hardly believe this is real magic."

Oliver Wood sat wide-eyed in the second row of his Potions class. His face was contorted with an expression of rapt awe for the dark-cloaked professor with the long, jet-black hair that lay as long as his own, except bone straight. Professor Snape exuded power and authority. His movements and stance commanded respect.

"I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes," he said, walking slowly around the class, glaring at each student with calculating menace.

When his eyes met with Oliver's, he wrapped himself in the cloak of his robes, which managed to billow, despite the eerie stillness of the room. His eyes widened, as if he found something in Oliver's thoughts that surprised him. Oliver looked away, blushing.

"I can teach you the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses," he said, his eyes burrowing a hole through Oliver, "I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death."

The dramatic pause was not lost on the first-years. The room was so stilly, one would think Professor Snape could stop time, as well.

He proceeded to the front of the class as he began his lecture. Like a tidal wave, the students turned and looked inquisitively to each other, hearing a rhythmic cadence of marching feet. Within seconds, the entire class had shifted in their chairs and looked to the back of the room. The louder the footsteps became, the more nervous and stentorian the students' clamouring became, much to their professor's resentment.

The door swung open and Marcus trudged to the front of the class, trying in vain to halt his trainers from continuing. The class could hardly contain themselves. They began to point and snigger, even when Marcus glared at them menacingly.

His chin jutted out and his teeth clench as his eyes met Oliver's, who had the decency to slide down in his chair and hide behind Percy. In stark contrast, however, Percy continued to laugh with the class until Professor Snape silenced them all with a raised hand.

Professor Snape drew his wand, pointed at Marcus' marching feet, and hissed, _"Finite Incantatem." _

Marcus' feet stopped. To his credit, the indignant and defiant grimace hardly left his face even as Professor Snape towered over him.

"What is the meaning of this interruption, Flint?" he asked, so low Oliver could barely hear.

"Detention… Flitwick—"

"Professor Flitwick," he corrected, again folding his spidery arms within robes. "I will not have a repeat of last year, Marcus. You will not make a fool of the Slytherin House with your complete and utter incompetence."

Oliver tried not to look on, but was mesmerized by his teacher's over-powering authority and Marcus' unwavering rebelliousness.

"You will meet me after your classes for the remainder of the week…"

Only then did Marcus' expression turn to something close to panic.

"But sir…? Quidditch…"

Professor Snape leaned dangerously close to Marcus as he spoke with narrowed eyes.

"Then you should have thought of that before you let your idiocy get the best of you. Besides," he straightened his posture, yet continued to glare down his nose at Marcus as he continued, "If your flying is anywhere near last year's display, I can assure you I would rather have a toad flying on the team than the likes of you."

Percy sniggered, receiving a sharp look from Professor Snape and Marcus.

"Ten points from Gryffindor for sticking noses in places they don't belong."

"But, sir," Percy exclaimed looking shocked and, dare Oliver believe, offended, "that's hardly fair!"

""I can make it twenty, if you like?"

Percy opened his mouth to protest more when Oliver elbowed Percy in the ribs, whispering, "Don't!"

Oliver's eyes glanced back up towards Marcus. Fear coursed through his veins when he saw Marcus' staring back with a most hateful expression on his face; brow furrowed, teeth gnashed, face twisted in anger. Oliver quickly looked away, burying his face in his Potions' tome.

"I expect you here at five o'clock, sharp. Get out of my sight!" Professor Snape barked, turning on his heel and walking to his desk.

For a second, Marcus looked as though he were going to fight his way out of detention. He thought better of it, however, turned on his heel, and left the room.

**§**

"Bill and Charlie warned me about Professor Snape," Percy prattled on as he, Ethan, and Oliver walked up the stairwell leading out of the dungeons. "But I always thought they were simply trying to scare me."

"Way to lose us ten points, Percy," Ethan admonished through a pout.

Oliver stopped walking, abruptly, palming his forehead, "Oh, man! I think I left my notes in class."

"I'm not going back there," Ethan exclaimed, with a panicked look in his eyes, "Not with Spider-Snape there!"

Oliver turned to head back down the steps, "Go on, then. I'll meet you next class."

"I'll save you a seat!" Percy called out as Oliver ducked from view.

As eerie as the dungeon rooms were during class, they were far creepier when emptied. Eyeing his notes, Oliver took a deep breath and moved swiftly to his desk. He recalled Professor McGonagall's words from earlier, 'you're safe'. He gathered his parchments, put them neatly in his bookbag, and hurried out of the room, breathing a sigh of relief as he closed the door behind him.

Once he reached the stairwell, he heard scuffling feet and hushed whispers, followed by a much louder 'ow!' Oliver considered finding a different way out of the dungeons, but he knew too little about Hogwarts and he was already late for his next class.

With renewed resolution, he began to walk up the stairs.

"Ow, Marcus! Stop!"

"Shut up!"

Marcus had a small lad pushed against the corner as the stairs angled to the left. Oliver recognised the first-year from his Potions class. It was Derrick.

"I saw you laughing at me earlier," Marcus said, shoving the poor, frightened boy against the wall.

Derrick's head hit the wall with a small 'thud'. Marcus grabbed a handful of the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer to him before slamming him against the wall again.

"Ow!"

"Think it was funny, yeah?"

"No! Marcus, I wasn't laughing! I… Ow!"

"Liar! Don't lie to me, fuckin' poof!"

Marcus practically snarled the words. Derrick looked over Marcus' shoulder to Oliver. Realising he was looking at someone else in the stairwell, Marcus quickly turned to face Oliver, releasing his victim. Taking advantage of Marcus' diverted attention, Derrick darted up the stairs, leaving Oliver alone.

"Bloody hell!" Marcus exclaimed, trying to grab for Derrick. However, it was too late. In an instant, Marcus was atop Oliver, grabbing at his shirt and forcing him to take Derrick's place against the wall.

"I'll take care of Derrick later," Marcus said, his voice guttural.

He leaned closer to Oliver, who trembled in his grip. A sneer stretched across his lips.

"Marcus, I—"

"Shut up!" he yelled, pushing him bodily against the wall.

Slowly, his fist drew back.

"You've been asking for this one, fuckin' poof!"

He was helpless, as usual. He could not raise an arm to defend himself or push Marcus away. All he could do was close his eyes and wait for the inevitable to come.

**º**


	4. Chapter 4

_"Nubisae Oliver!"_

The familiar voice echoed in the stairwell. Eyes still closed, he heard the unmistakable 'thud' of a fist hitting the wall behind him and then Flint's howling screech. Slowly, he opened his eyes to find Marcus falling backwards, holding his bloodied fist.

"My hand! It's broken!"

"Better your fist than his nose, I'd imagine."

The voice came from Bill Weasley, standing at the bottom of the stairwell with a self-satisfying smirk on his face. His brother, Charlie, walked to Oliver, wand at the ready. His expression was categorically different from his brother's, angry and surly.

He whispered _"Finite Incantatem,"_ and Oliver felt the clothes against his skin, once again.

Charlie placed a hand on Oliver's shoulder. Oliver was trembling, eyes wide in fear. He could not tear his gaze from Marcus, who continued to squirm on the floor in pain.

Charlie leaned closer and pulled Oliver's hair back, away from his forehead. Satisfied that there were no marks on the young lad, Charlie slid his hand gently down Oliver's face until he cupped Oliver's cheek in his hand with a thumb massaging just under the lad's eye. Oliver flinched.

"Hey, hey... it's okay," Charlie said in a comforting whisper.

Marcus jumped to his feet and brandished his wand. Charlie swung around when he noticed Oliver's eyes widen. 

_"Expelliarmus!"_

A flash of energy filled the corridor. Marcus' wand flew into Bill's hand.

"Threatening my little brother, are we?" he said, his once-jubilant smile twisted menacingly. "Go on, then," he warned. "Try me."

Marcus continued to glower at Oliver, casting mental threats that showed on his dour expression. Still holding up his broken hand, buckled into the likeness of a claw, Marcus walked past Charlie and up the steps. Oliver clutched at the back of Charlie's shirt, still frightened. Bill blocked the doorway, forcing Marcus to slide sideways past him, struggling to squeeze through without touching the sturdy redhead.

"Are you alright?" Charlie asked.

Oliver was visibly shaken. His eyes darted around the corridor, as if he still needed to find an escape. Charlie ruffled Oliver's hair and let out a small laugh.

"Oh, you'll be alright."

"Th-thanks," Oliver finally managed to mutter.

"No fear," Charlie replied. "Come on, then. I'll walk you to your next class, just-in-case."

Oliver nodded and walked up the stairs, Charlie hot on his heels.

Bill stopped his brother, grabbing his arm. "You'll be okay, then?"

"Me?" Charlie laughed. "I hardly need to worry about that runt. We'll be fine. But meet me in the library later, I still need help with Potions."

Bill continued to walk down the stairs to the dungeons. "Very well, then. See ya, Oliver!"

"Bye!" Oliver called out, peering around Charlie's sturdy frame.

"Where to?" Charlie asked. His voice was bright and jubilant, as if he had not just rescued Oliver from certain doom.

"Uhm... what?"

"Your class? Where to?"

"Oh, I'm done for the day," Oliver said, rather sheepishly. He feared that Charlie would turn back and leave him to walk to the common room by himself.

"To the common room, then?" Charlie asked, turning his head to watch the young lad scuttering alongside him.

Charlie was sturdy, solidly built and rugged with a friendly face. He walked in long strides, not like he owned the place, but certainly, as though nothing could hurt him. In fact, Oliver virtually had to gallop to keep up with him. He was hardly like Percy, who seemed too prim for his age. Instead, Charlie gave the impression of strength and Oliver admired it of him, especially after his display of courage just moments earlier.

"Tell me something," Charlie said, after a long moment of silence. "Do you like to fly?"

"I... I dunno," Oliver answered honestly. "I've never flown before."

Charlie looked slightly affronted by the admission. He scowled, though it was hardly the angry sort of scowl that Professor Snape would brandish; it was playful and sent Oliver into fits of giggles.

"Never flown before?" he repeated and followed by a tut. "Are you at least looking forward to your first flying lesson?"

"Oh, yes!" Oliver exclaimed, almost stumbling over his feet in his excitement.

Oliver followed Charlie up the stairs to the portrait of the Fat Lady, who gave the two an appraising look. Charlie reached back, draping his arm around Oliver's shoulder; the weight of it felt more like a security duvet than an arm.

"Password?" the Fat Lady asked, in her usual haughty, singsong voice.

_"Concordiae benivoli,"_ Charlie replied.

The Fat Lady nodded her approval and made a graceful sweeping motion with her arm. The bustle of the common room could be heard as the door swung open. Oliver saw Percy's head peering from around one of the large chairs in front of the fireplace, followed shortly by Cory and Ethan, their expressions that of relief. The three friends hopped out of their chairs and hurried over to Oliver.

Charlie ruffled Oliver's hair once more. "Well," he said, "I hope to see you in your flying lesson."

"Are you the flying coach, then?" he asked, obviously confused.

"Oh, no." Charlie laughed, "Madam Hooch is your instructor. And a fine one at that! No, I'm merely her assistant. You can learn a lot from her, though. Brilliant flyer. Hullo, Perc."

"Don't call me that." Percy scowled as he approached them.

"Fine, then," Charlie said. "Percival!"

Ethan and Cory's eyebrows shot up at the sound of Percy's full name.

"Percival!" Ethan exclaimed, bursting with laughter.

Percy tried to remain dignified, turning his head with a pout and folding his arms in front of his chest. It did not work.

Charlie gave Oliver another ruffle of the hair and a wink. "Tomorrow then?" he asked.

Oliver smiled. "Tomorrow."

Charlie turned and began to walk away, but not before saying goodbye to 'Percival', this time in a much louder, singsong voice. Oliver was happy, again, watching his new friend saunter down the corridor. For a moment, he even forgot having been accosted by Marcus Flint. Even as Charlie disappeared from sight, Oliver continued to stare down the hall.

"Come on, then," Percy called on, exasperatingly. He grabbed Oliver's arm and pulled him into the common room.

**§**

In the Transfiguration classroom, Professor McGonagall surveyed the work handed in by her students. She always gave first-years a small exam on the first day, a test to determine how much they knew coming into Hogwarts. People who scored well would be expected to advance farther and quicker than those with lower marks. Like Cory Manthis whose grandmother was an exceptionally gifted witch, especially in Transfiguration. With his scores as high as they were, Professor McGonagall expected nothing short of greatness from the lad. Oliver Wood, however, was a different story altogether. He tested quite poorly, indeed, but it was expected. She knew what kind of family he came from, what kind of a waste his father was. Professor McGonagall knew that Oliver would need special attention and hoped that he could find positive role models here at Hogwarts.

A gentle rapping at the door brought her out of her reverie. Professor Dumbledore strode in the room, a gleam in his eye.

"You wanted to see me, Minerva?"

"Oh, yes, Albus. Thank you for coming."

Professor McGonagall set aside the parchment in her hand, stood, and walked to stand in front of Professor Dumbledore.

"It's about Wood," she said, matter-of-factly.

"Ah yes, Odhran's son. What about him exactly?" he asked peering through his half-moon spectacles.

"Well..." Professor McGonagall seemed at a loss for what to say, exactly. "There's... there's been talk."

"Talk, Minerva?"

She could scantly tell if this was another instance of the Headmaster being purposefully vague, or if he honestly had not known.

"There's always 'talk', m'dear," he continued.

"Yes, yes, of course. But..." she agreed. "This is different."

"Do you believe the talk, then?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

Professor McGonagall steeled herself, gathering strength from the very air around her. Holding her chin high, she answered with a nod.

Professor Dumbledore seemed to deflate at this. He had always relied on her judgement. She was his eyes and ears when other more pressing matters diverted his attention. If she felt something were truly amiss in the Wood residence, then it must be.

He sighed exorbitantly. "What do you propose we do, then?"

Professor McGonagall seemed shocked at the question, as if the answer were obvious. "Well... we tell the Ministry! Prevent Oliver from returning home."

"You know as well as I how long that could take, Minerva. Formal charges would have to be filed..."

Professor McGonagall became agitated, looking around as if an answer lay somewhere in the room. "Well... then..." she flustered, "we must keep him here… over holidays and summer."

He reached out, placing his comforting hands on her shoulder. Her voice hitched as her gaze locked with Dumbledore's.

"Minerva," he said, calmly. "We will do our best. Fortunately, he seems to have made friends with Cory and Percy, both of which come from wonderful families. And, as you know, Molly seems to be a bottomless pit of maternal love."

His eyes twinkled infectiously as the words left his mouth and Professor McGonagall could barely resist smiling.

"Yes, yes. Of course, you're right, Albus," she resigned, pulling away from Dumbledore's hold. She walked back to her desk and began stacking the parchments neatly atop one another.

Professor Dumbledore turned and walked to the door, giving the room one final appraising glance before turning his gaze on McGonagall, who still had her back to him.

"Oliver Wood will be okay, Minerva."

She stood transfixed at these words, wondering if they could possibly be true or if they were making a mistake. She feared that what Dumbledore was asking her to do was tantamount to negligence, ignoring the problem in the hopes that it goes away or that someone else picks up the slack. She did not hear Dumbledore's 'goodnight' or the closing of the door behind him. All she could hear was the potential of her failure.

**§**


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**  
"You're pathetic, troll." 

A group of cushioned chairs made a half-circle in a nook of the Slytherin common room, where Jakob's shrill voice echoed mercilessly for everyone to hear. Marcus, having returned from Madam Pomfrey with his hand lightly bandaged (and strict orders not to move his hand too much) which allowed only the ends of his fingers and a thumb to poke out, merely scowled at the floor. His _Charms_ textbook lay open on his lap, though he had long-since stopped reading. The taunts of his friends were brutal and relentless once they ascertained what happened between Marcus and the new Gryffindor.

"I can't believe you let that girl-of-a-boy get the better of you," Damien said, red-faced from laughing.

"It wasn't the Squib," Marcus finally rebuffed. "It was those Weasley blokes."

"Since when was a troll afraid of a weasel, Flint?" Mathis asked.

"Fuck orf," Marcus huffed.

"Bloody Mordred, you even skulk like a fuckin' _troglodyte_," Jakob admonished, his eyes narrowing.

His laughter ceased as he surveyed Flint, disgust colouring every inch of his angular face. Slowly, the others stopped their laughing, too, as if waiting for some unspoken order. Jakob merely shook his head in resignation, draped his leg over the arm of his chair and began to read his _Transfigurations_ tome.

To Marcus, the silence of his peers was far worse than their ridicule. He could take their jeering, at least then he knew they were paying attention to him, thinking about him, even if it were with slight disdain. However, to be ignored, to be thought so little as to be forgotten, that was unbearable. Unable to take the taciturnity any longer, Marcus slammed his book closed and stormed off to the sleeping quarters. He could hear the slight murmuring of his peers; they were laughing at him, yet again.

Once he made it to his four-poster, Marcus slipped off his robe and loosened his tie, letting them both fall to the floor. He kicked them under his bed even as he began unbuttoning his shirt. Pain shot through his hand when I tried to use it, forgetting that it was still quite sore. He stood stoic and grimaced with clenched jaws, shutting his eyes tight as he waited for the pain to subside. Surveying himself in the full-length mirror beside his bed as he slid his shirt off his shoulders, he took in his reflection.

Marcus was hardly an ugly lad. Sure, his teeth could use a bit of fixing, but his frame was sturdy enough. His jaw line was pronounced, strong and his eyes were that of deep chocolate, as his niece was fond of saying. He was not pretty, but boys -- no, _men_ -- were not supposed to be 'pretty'. Men were to be strong and burly, not prancing about like a poofter-- like that Oliver Wood prat. Likewise, what of Charlie Weasley? If anyone deserved a swift kick in the arse, it was that redheaded ponce. Marcus could admit that he could never intimidate Weasley, not built as he was. He would have to work on that in the meantime. There was a new determination to get on the Slytherin Quidditch team, now if only to send a Bludger directly at the Gryffindor's fat head. In the meantime, he would make sure to deal with Troy Davis -- who mucked up Marcus' chances to play Quidditch by getting him in trouble with Professor Snape as well as Oliver Wood, who deserved everything he was going to give him. After all, Charlie Weasley will not be here forever.

He discarded his shirt on his bed, his hands brushing along his chest. Marcus could feel the muscles underneath the suppleness that was his boyhood. Even now at the age of twelve, he could see the outline of definition on his stomach. He raised his unbroken hand, then bent the arm at the elbow, tensing and flexing. The seeming pliable flesh gave way to something harder as a bulge of a bicep poked through the façade of softness. Marcus looked away from his reflection and stared at the muscle, rubbing it with his other hand, enjoying the feel of it.

The flexed appendage relaxed and travelled down along his chest to his stomach, his fingers searching for hair that is hardly there, yet. His heartbeat quickened and his breath hitched as the very tip of his hand slid under the waistband of his undergarments. He watched the reflection of his crotch as his cock grew hard.

When he heard the pattering of feet from behind the door growing louder, Marcus jerked his hand away and crawled onto his four-poster. Not wanting to be the focus of any more revilements this evening, he closed the curtains. His breathing finally slowed as he waited for sleep to claim him. When he finally began to dream, he dreamt of revenge.

---

Sleep came easily for Oliver last night. He hardly worried about the creaking sounds Hogwarts gave off and barely concerned himself with the dragons or ogres, which may, or may not be rummaging through the castle, not with Charlie Weasley around. Even dreaming of the lad gave Oliver a sense of security that he could scant remember ever feeling before. When he awoke to Percy's insufferably enthusiastic voice -- far too enthusiastic for mornings, mind you -- Oliver could not wait to start the day. He had his first flying lesson, after all... and Charlie would be there, too. Nothing could bring him down!

Oliver walked with Cory, Ethan and Percy to the Gryffindor showers. Ethan's scruffy hair could barely be contained first thing in the morning and Cory's breathe, as bad as it was during the day, was a fair share worse first thing in the morning. Oliver hoped he would refrain from using words with a lot of H's and U's. Of course, when the first words out of his yawning mouth were 'hello', Oliver realized that was wishful thinking. Yet even Cory's questionable hygiene could not put a damper on Oliver's spirits or muzzle his mood, which Percy quickly noticed.

"You're all smiles this morning," Percy said as he applied dentifrice to his toothbrush.

"What?" It took a moment for Oliver to realize that he was smiling indeed.

"You're smiling. In a good mood, then?" he asked, bringing his toothbrush to his mouth.

Oliver reached over to take Percy's paste. "May I?" he asked.

Percy nodded.

"I slept well, is all," Oliver said, putting a thin line of paste on his toothbrush. "It's been an age since I've slept that well."

Percy leaned over the faucet, bringing water to his lips and swishing it around before spitting. He pulled out his wand and flicked it towards his kitbag.

_"Accio towel."_

Percy's bath towel floated into his arms. Ethan yanked back the curtains of his shower just enough to reveal the surprise on his face, which was matched by Oliver's.

"Did you just perform a Summoning charm?" Ethan asked, incredulously.

"Where'd you learn that?" Oliver mumbled, dribbling toothpaste-flavoured spit from the sides of his mouth.

"I told you before, Oliver," Percy answered, looking both smug and exasperated. "You pick up a few things living at The Burrow. Charlie would always pinch my things."

Oliver almost grew mad at the insinuation. Charlie was no thief! He was beyond such petty things, Oliver was sure of it.

"Well, if not Charlie then certainly the twins," Percy qualified.

"Why do you always call them 'the twins'," Ethan said as he stepped out of the shower, wrapping his bath towel around his slender waist and using another to dry his hair. "It's like they haven't a name or summat."

"Well, it's a fair bit quicker than saying 'Fred and George' each time they break something," Percy answered, as if explaining something so simple to someone completely obtuse. "And you'd scarcely see one without the other, at any rate. Might as well make it easy on yourself."

Percy walked out of the bathroom, flinging his bag over his shoulder. Before opening the door to exit, he turned back and called, "And do hurry. I'm absolutely starving."

Oliver watched as Percy disappeared from view. Ethan prodded at him with an elbow and smiled.

"I don't know about you," he said, "but I can hardly wait for 'the twins' to arrive. Fair bit more fun than ole Percival I'd imagine."

Oliver laughed in spite of himself.

----

The remainder of the morning went by swiftly. Classes concluded without incident and Oliver's mood was such that even seeing Flint scowl at him in the corridors could hardly dampen his spirits. He knew, after all, that Charlie would be able to handle things if the need arose, and that made him feel infinitely safer. 'If only I could be like Charlie,' he often thought to himself.

The closer it came to three-thirty in the afternoon, however, the more nervous Oliver found himself becoming. It hardly helped matters that Ethan fretted just as much and far more vocally over his fear of flying. Neither had ever been on a broom before and several taunts of the Slytherins in Transfiguration class did little to ease their ills. Percy remained calm, but Oliver noticed a bead of sweat begin to gather around the redhead's brow. To make matters worse, Charlie was to be there, helping Madame Hooch with the lessons. What if Oliver fell in front of him? What if he could not even take flight? What if he remained grounded and still? What would Charlie think of him then?

Oliver, Ethan, Percy and Cory hurried down the front steps onto the open grounds for their first flying lesson. The sky was clear and a slight breeze whipped through the courtyard. From a distance, Oliver could see Charlie placing twenty or so broomsticks in two rows of ten. He looked up and waved at them as they walked closer to the crowd of Gryffindors already grouped around Madame Hooch.

"Hullo, Percival!" Charlie bellowed, far louder than necessary.

Ethan and Cory laughed as Percy's smile instantly morphed to a scowl. "Don't call me that!"

Madame Hooch stood with her hands on her hips, her hawk-like eyes surveying the youngsters gathered around her. A small smile stretched across her thin lips as the wind rustled her short, grey, feather-like hair.

"Well," she called, "you lot won't be flying me. Find a broom!"

Each student scurried to claim their own broomsticks. Oliver's was tattered with bristles bound haphazardly by twine which, in and of itself, was deteriorating badly.

"Hold out your hand," called Madame Hooch, "and say 'Up!'"

Everyone shouted 'Up'. Cory's broom flew to his hand at once. Percy's bounced up and down, hovering just beyond his reach. It seemed like it was teasing him. After the third exasperated command, Ethan's finally shot up to strike him square in the face, leaving a long, red mark across his cheek. Oliver's broom was the worst, however. It simply flopped about like a fish out of water, rolling around fervently but hardly raising itself from the ground. It seemed... tired.

"Having problems, mate?" Charlie asked from behind.

"Only a bit," Oliver answered, blushing.

"Here's a tip," Charlie said, leaning in to whisper in Oliver's ear. "Don't ask it. Tell it."

It took a moment for Oliver to absorb what was said. All he could remember at first was the breath that tickled the nape of his neck as Charlie spoke and the smell of him as the wind carried it to Oliver's nose.

"Go on, then," Charlie prodded.

Oliver to a deep breath and resolutely commanded 'Up!'. The broom handle jumped up to his hand, and continued to move as if full of unbridled energy. Whereas before the broom seemed listless and weak, now it seemed sprightly and eager to go.

"Charlie," Madam Hooch said, "help the students with the proper stance, please?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered, placing a hand on the small of Oliver's back. "Up you go, then."

Oliver straddled the broom, gripping the handle so tight as to be white-knuckled.

"Easy there, tiger. Don't strangle the broom. You're not shirty with it."

Charlie mounted the broom behind the lad and wrapped his hands around Oliver's, forcing his grip to loosen. Oliver could feel the moisture from Charlie's breath dance along his ear. His back felt warm, as though it were wrapped in a duvet. Goosebumps sprouted along the young Gryffindor's neck and he felt a dead weight in the pit of his stomach.

"Here's a trick Madame Hooch won't show you," Charlie finally said. "Scoot up higher along the shaft and lean _into_ the wind when you fly."

With that, Charlie walked away and began inspecting the other students' positioning. Oliver found that he instantly missed the warmth on his back but his attention soon focused to the broom, which seemed poised to shoot off against his will.

"Now, when I blow my whistle," Madame Hooch said, "I want you to kick off the ground. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle -- three -- two --"

Oliver leaned forward as Charlie had suggested. However, before Madame Hooch could blow her whistle, Oliver's broom shot upwards into the air carrying the hapless youth with it. Madame Hooch managed to duck out of the way as the pair sped by before spiralling up toward the clouds.

Oliver scarcely heard the shouts of his classmates or professor over the sound of the wind rippling past his ears as his speed became ever faster. His velocity increased to the point where he was no longer able to remain seated. His bottom rose from the broom as he held on for dear life. Once again, Oliver was strangling the handle of the broom as he shot up in what appeared to be amazingly acrobatic spiralling loops. Impressive though this may have looked to onlookers, Oliver's broom was totally out of his control.

Oliver could feel the splinters catch in his skin as his grip loosened and he slid down the length of the broom. Finally, he could take no more. As the broom reached the apex of its highest arch, Oliver simply gave up...

... and let go.


	6. Chapter 6

**6.  
**Oliver Wood could hardly think straight. He knew he had been riding high on his broom. He also knew that said broom had started veering out-of-control. Unable to hold on any longer, he simply let go and found himself falling towards terra firma like a sack of galleons. Eleven years old, apparently, is not too young to die. For the second time in one week, Oliver closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable to come. 

"Gotcha Ollie!"

The young lad hit something that much he could feel. However, it was not the hard ground that he expected to hit. Instead, he found himself cradled under one of Charlie Weasley's arms. Oliver opened his eyes to find Charlie smiling down at him. They were flying together on Charlie's broom.

"You... I... you..."

The words were little more than a whisper. Once they touched down on solid ground, Oliver straightened up, dusted off his robes (while managing to look shockingly dignified), looked around, then burst into tears, throwing himself on Charlie and burying his face in the older Gryffindor's robes.

Charlie laughed, not unkindly. "There, there, Ollie," he said. "You'll be alright."

Even as he spoke the words, Oliver could hear the cheering of his classmates as they ran towards them. Soon, he was surrounded by Percy, Cory, Ethan and the rest of his Gryffindor class, all grabbing at his shoulders or slapping his back. Some of the girls even hugged him with tears in their eyes. As the exchange occurred, Charlie's hand never left the lad's shoulder and Oliver was thankful for his security duvet.

Madame Hooch broke through the crowd, a mixture of relief and anger etched on her face.

"Mr. Wood," she called out. "You scared the living banshee out of me, young man." She knelt in front of him, pulled back his hair and inspected his face. "No cuts. No bruises. Still," she stood and looked at Charlie, breathing a sigh of relief, "best to have Madame Pomfrey have a look at him, then. Charlie, will you escort Mr. Wood to the infirmary?"

"I'd be glad to, ma'am," Charlie replied, squeezing Oliver's shoulder. Oliver leaned in closer.

"Want me to come with you, Oliver?" Percy asked.

Oliver started to nod, but Madame Hooch began shooing them away.

"No, no. None of that," she admonished, though her tone was light. "Class is far from over. Back to your brooms, you lot."

The crowd gave a disapproving moan. Nevertheless, they turned to walk back to the courtyard where their brooms waited for them.

"We'll save you a seat at supper, Oliver!" Percy called as he walked away.

"Yeah! See ya, Oliver!" Ethan followed.

Oliver merely nodded, still shaking even as Charlie walked alongside him with his hand on Oliver's shoulder. They were quiet as they made their way up the steps to the main entrance. Charlie opened the door and held it for Oliver, gently guiding him along with his hand still on the young Gryffindor's shoulder. It could stay there forever for all Oliver cared. Once the entrance closed behind them, Oliver swung around and hugged Charlie.

"Whoa, there!" Charlie laughed. "You're quite welcome." He ruffled Oliver's hair. "I'm getting quite used to rescuing you, though. I may have to start charging, yeah?"

Quite honestly, Oliver did not want to let go. Bad things happened when he let go and Charlie always made things better. However, even as Charlie began to pull away, Oliver felt infinitely better.

"Thank you, Mr. Weasley."

Charlie scoffed, "Mr. Weasley! Man, how old d'you think I am?"

They continued to walk down the corridor, Oliver looking the redhead up and down.

"Dunno," he answered. "Thirty?"

"Thirty!" Charlie looked at him with mock-hurt in his eyes. "By golly, by gum! M'dad's thirty! I think. No wait." He stared at the ceiling, moving his fingers as if counting on them. "Carry the one..." He shook his head in defeat. "Well, no matter. Close enough. Merlin, Ollie … I'm only fourteen. I'm fourth-year, after all. Just call me Charlie."

"Okay, Charlie," Oliver said with a giggle as they turned a corner. "How old's Mr. Wea...er Bill?"

"Well, he's sixth-year. So that makes him sixteen, don' it? It'll be a sad day when Bill leaves. But," he continued after a deep breath, "at least we'll have the twins to entertain us."

"I'm nearly twelve," Oliver said, then instantly blushed, slightly embarrassed. There was a small lull in the conversation as their steps echoed down the hall. Finally, Oliver broke the silence.

"Percy says he feels sorry for Hogwarts professors the day the twins show their faces."

"Oh, he _would_ say that," Charlie said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Percival's of the bookly sort." He held up a finger to his pursed lips, as if he were telling Oliver some dastardly secret.

"Don't I know it!" Oliver barked, laughing.

"You'll get on with the twins. Just... don't accept anything they give you at face value. At least, not food. Here we are Oliver."

They stood at the entrance to the infirmary. Oliver looked more than a little sad that their journey had come to an end. "Go on, then. I'll see you at supper, yeah? Don't worry. Madame Pomfrey is as nice as they come."

Oliver stood still for a moment, biting his bottom lip. His eyes seemed bigger -- and sadder -- than should be allowed for the occasion. Finally, he shot his arms out and gave Charlie another hug.

"Thank you for saving me, Charlie," he muttered.

"Anytime, little bugger." The tall lad ruffled Oliver's hair (a habit Oliver was beginning to get quite used to, actually) as he said, "If you want, I can help you with your flying some more."

"Oh, boy would I! Bye, Charlie!"

Oliver seemed to bounce into the infirmary and Charlie waited until he saw Madame Pomfrey fussing over the boy before he turned away and headed, with a smile, back outside to the courtyard. As he turned a corner, he ran into Troy Davis, a second-year Hufflepuff. Troy pulled away, sucking air through his teeth. He was holding his stomach and, if Charlie didn't know better, had been limping.

"Oh, sorry, mate."

"No... no problem, yeah?" Troy replied, refusing to make eye contact.

"You alright then?"

"Y-yeah. Of course," Troy answered, trying to walk around Charlie.

Charlie could see that the younger lad was far from 'alright'. Indeed, there were bruises about his face and neck, particularly around his eye. Charlie placed a hand on the Troy's shoulder and quickly pulled back when the boy winced. "You're far from alright. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"No... I just... fell."

"You fell?"

"Yeah, turned a corner too quick and fell down some stairs on my way to Potions."

Charlie knew this to be a lie. Professor Snape maintained office hours at this time. He looked further down the hall and saw Flint walking out of the stairway leading down to the Dungeons -- down to the Potions rooms. Flint's right hand was still bandaged heavily. The Gryffindor's anger swelled when they made eye contact, Flint smirking victoriously before turning and walking towards the Great Hall.

"Flint's left hook just as bad as his right?" Charlie asked, still staring at the Slytherin's back.

"Wh-what? No, I ... I said I fell, I did!"

With that, Troy limped towards the Infirmary, leaving Charlie to his thoughts -- thoughts of payback.

Oliver could scarcely understand. He was not sick and certainly did not remember complaining about having Wizards Flu, but here he sat on a bed in the Infirmary with the curtain drawn and a thermometer in his mouth. His feet did not touch the ground so, in their boredom, they began to swing. Madame Pomfrey stared patiently at her time-ticker, hand on her hip.

"Very well, then," she said, closing the time-ticker. "Let's see what we have here."

She pulled the thermometer out of Oliver's mouth, brought it close to her eyes and peered at it.

"Yes, very good," she muttered, placing the thin, plastic piece on a metal tray by the stand next to the bed. She took his arm in her hands and felt for the pulse along the inside of his forearm. Her thumb pressed down firmly yet gently on an artery and gazed fixedly at the ceiling, humming an indecipherable tune. She radiated kindness, even the semi-sterile environment of her sanatorium and Oliver found that he enjoyed her company almost as much as Charlie's, though in quite a different way. She was, after all, a grown-up and Charlie, while strong and brave and caring, was a lad – a glorious, wonderful, _handsome _lad, but a lad nonetheless.

Wait? Are blokes supposed to think of other blokes as 'handsome'?

"Your heart rate is still a little too quick for my liking," she said, patting his arm before releasing it. "If you want a small vial of a _Calming Drought_, I can prepare it for you."

"No, no thank you, Madame Pomfrey," Oliver said. "I'm fine. Really, I am."

"Well, next time you go falling four stories make sure you at least have a cushion tied to your rump."

Oliver giggled as he hopped off the bed and pulled back the curtains. Both he and Madame Pomfrey gasped when they saw Troy Davis limping towards them, face bloodied and beaten.

"I... I fell--"

"My goodness! What is it with you youngsters falling today?" Madame Pomfrey admonished, though without anger. She bustled over to Troy, gently draping one arm around his shoulders and guiding him to a bed. As they passed, Troy made eye contact with Oliver before darting away. Oliver knew that look. He wore it often, shame. He had made flimsy excuses himself many times when relatives came to visit. 'Oh, I feel down the stairs' or 'I hurt myself wrestling with some mates'.

Watching Troy wince and flinch every time Madame Pomfrey salved ointment on his eye, Oliver felt a tinge of sympathy and not a little pity. He knew who had done this to Troy and that knowledge sent shivers of fear and dread down his spine.


	7. Chapter 7

**7.**  
Marcus Flint scowled at his opened book. The letters seemed to shimmer and move even as his eyes made to read them. Left to right. Left to right. Right to left. Repeat. As soon as he moved from line to line, he found that he could not move on to the next page without at least skimming the top portions of the text again. His head began to hurt; a dull, throbbing pain that seemed to start from the eyes and work itself around to the nape of his neck. He rubbed at his temples, closing his eyes in an attempt to soothe his nerves. Returning his attention to the text, he used his hands to create shade over the tome, hoping that it would stop the rivers of white from overpowering the words.

"Don't you have detention with Professor Snape," called a female voice.

Marcus looked up and found Drusilla Landau pulling out the chair across the table from him and proceeding to sit. Taking out a book from her book bag, she looked over Marcus appraisingly. For his part, Marcus' brow furrowed deeper. He sunk further down in his seat and pulled his book and parchment closer to him.

"What are you studying?" Drusilla leaned forward and looked at Marcus' book. "Oh, Charms. I like Professor Flitwick," she said, casually returning to her own studies. "I know I'm not supposed to and all that. But, hey... what can you do?"

"What you want?" Marcus asked gruffly, looking ever more uncomfortable.

Drusilla just shrugged. "All of the other tables are either full or have complete idiots in them."

But, wasn't Marcus a 'complete idiot', too? Professor Snape thought so and had no qualms about letting him know it. Marcus continued to watch the girl ruefully, as if expecting her to start ribbing on him at any moment. The slag offs never came. Drusilla had long, straight, jet-black hair that seemed to take in light from every source and reflect it back. It shined as though alive and would oft times move even when there were no winds to move them. Her face was round and cat-like and her eyes a deep shade of grey that revealed little to anyone peering in them. Marcus found her... alluring if not pretty altogether.

Drusilla looked up at the clock on the far wall. "I'm serious, Marcus. You're fifteen minutes late for your detention with Professor Snape."

"How d'you know?"

"Heard him talking about it, didn't I?" She answered nonchalantly, flipping a page from her tome.

Marcus began wondering how she could have overheard Professor Snape talking about his detention, which moved to wondering who Professor Snape was talking to, which turned into other thoughts of unimportance until Marcus was doe-eyes and slack-jawed, mouth slightly open with a blank expression on his face.

"Marcus!" Drusilla was snapping her fingers in his face. "Seriously Flint you need to go. You're late!"

Madame Pince stalked around a shelf carrying stacks of books, piled precariously atop each other. She pursed her lips disapprovingly and whispered, "Shhh! No talking in the library, you two!"

Marcus looked at the clock on the wall and hopped to his feet. "Oh no! I'm late for Professor Snape's detention!" He began scurrying around, tossing his Charms book, parchment, and quill into his messenger bag. Without so much as a 'goodbye', Marcus ran out of the library, almost colliding with Madame Pince along the way. Drusilla merely shook her head when she realized that Marcus had left his ink on the table. A smile slowly crept on her face. She now had an excuse.

**§**

"Professor Snape, might I have a word with you?"

Oliver walked in the Potions classroom where Professor Snape sat behind his desk, marking student exams furiously with angry, red ink. The professor looked up at the sound of Oliver's voice.

"Yes, Mr. Wood?" he replied with an arched eyebrow. Although there was a hint of disdain in his voice, his eyes did not narrow (which Oliver took as a good sign to continue with his trespass).

"Sir, if you please," Oliver continued as he walked closer to the table, quite unsure of what to do with his hands. "I was wondering if I could... well, that is..."

"Get on with it, Mr. Wood. My time is precious."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Oliver took a deep breath and steeled himself, although not making eye contact with his professor. "Sir, I was wondering if you could give me some extra lessons." His eyes darted up to meet Professor Snape's in an attempt to quickly gauge his response. "I don't think I'll do very well in Potions."

As Oliver rambled on, one of Professor Snape's eyebrows arched. He lips began to curl up at the ends into an expression that was surely supposed to be a smile, but held far too much derision in them to be complimentary.

Finally, he interrupted Oliver, "Gryffindor's aren't known for their... patience. Here it is not even a week into school and already you think you should know everything."

He stood and straightened out his robes before wrapping himself in his cloak. Professor Snape's head tilted up, allowing him to scowl down his nose at the near-cowering Oliver.

"I must admit, however, that your performance in my class is hardly deplorable. You're friends with the Weasleys, are you not?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Should you need the extra tutelage, you may go to Bill Weasley. He is head boy, now, and is surprisingly more than capable of tutoring you in the subject."

It seemed as though it caused Professor Snape great discomfort to admit that a Gryffindor was good at a subject that he taught; he practically sneered Bill's name as he spoke it.

"Yes, sir."

Professor Snape walked back to his high-backed chair, as if there was nothing else to discuss. An irritated scowl dressed his features when he found, much to his dismay, Oliver still standing before him.

"Is there something else?" he asked irritably.

"N-no, sir."

"Then, be off."

Oliver turned and scampered to exit the room. As his hand reached for the handle, the door swung open. Oliver collided with the one person he would have liked most to avoid, Marcus Flint.

Marcus' hands instinctively reached up to prevent Oliver from falling to the floor, as if they had a mind of their own. Even after realising who he was touching, he could only just bring himself to let go. There was something... odd about the way Oliver looked at him, as if he was expecting pain. Marcus liked the look of fear and hurt on people and he could smell it a mile away in most cases. However, he found himself hypnotised by Oliver's blended expressions of abject horror, panic and dread. As if switched off by a light-switch, Marcus' doe-eyed expression contorted in anger. He let go of Oliver's shoulders dumping the precariously positioned youth onto the floor.

"S-sorry," Oliver muttered.

"Pouf," he sneered as he stepped over the lad, giving him a swift kick in the leg.

"That's enough, Mr. Flint," Professor Snape ordered. "Mr. Wood, I believe I asked you to leave."

Oliver did not have to be told twice. He pushed himself from the floor and hurried down the corridor.

As Marcus walked to Professor Snape's desk, his satisfied smirk quickly melted to one of forlorn as he took in his Head of House's stern visage.

"You," Professor Snape began, his voice low and dangerous, "are twenty minutes late. You have added another week to your detention, boy."

If Marcus was angered by this, he hardly showed it. He learned long ago that reactions to the professor's punishments only meant longer detentions -- and more of them. Instead, Marcus stood stoic, looking at the spot just above Snape's shoulder.

"Oh, yes," Professor Snape continued, standing and leaning on his desk. "I know how badly you wish to be on the Slytherin Quidditch team. But I can assure you that I will not forgo our winning streak by allowing your incompetence to sully their performance."

As if he could hear Marcus' teeth grinding in indignant protest, Professor Snape's lips curled upwards into a belittling smile.

"Rest assured, Flint -- you will _never_ play Quidditch for Slytherin as long as I am head of house."

With that, Professor Snape turned his attention back to the parchments on his desk and took a seat, as if Marcus was a mere irritation that had already been dealt with. Marcus stood, hands clenched in fists, jaws locked in anger.

Without looking up, Professor Snape said, "Well, Marcus...? The cauldrons won't clean themselves."

Marcus made to take out his wand.

"Oh, no, Marcus," Professor Snape said, raising a finger. "No magic."

He pointed to an old, wooden bucket on the far wall, filled almost to the rim with soapy water. 'By hand', Marcus realised, and even the water's saponaceousness looked foul and polluted with its choler. Professor Snape flicked his finger and a large, soaked sponge flew towards Marcus, who managed to catch it before it careened into his face. He closed his eyes as soap and water splash on his face. 'One day,' he thought, 'I'm gonna get Professor Snape back for this.'

With sponge in one hand and the bucket of water in the other, Marcus walked over to the other side of the room where rows of dirty cauldrons with their encrusted and burnt potions remnants. Surprisingly, his thoughts were not on the task at hand, nor about the Quidditch try-outs that he'd miss in two days. Even his anger at Professor Snape seemed to fall deep into the depths of his mind. Instead, his thoughts fell on Oliver; how his shoulders felt in Marcus' hands, how he looked, the fear rising in those big, brown eyes, even how he smelled, like sweat and (ironically enough) wood. As Marcus took the brush, nestled a cauldron between his legs, and began to scrub. Still, he thought of Oliver Wood. Certainly, he was beginning to hate himself for it.

**§**

Marcus Flint.

That name was supposed to ring fear in Oliver's heart and, to a point, it did. However, there was a familiarity with him that Oliver could not quite figure out. He was used to being afraid even in a place that was supposed to be safe. Moreover, he was used to having to walk on eggshells around people, to watch what he said and to show appropriate respect. What he was not used to, however, were the feelings bubbling underneath that threatened to erupt whenever the Marcus Flint got too close.

What was it, some new form of fear and dread? Fascination? Adoration? Marcus was strong, that was obvious, and he didn't seem to care what others thought of him. Oliver thought he seemed driven, too, as if he had a goal and nothing could stand in his way. Yes, there were things to admire in Marcus, Oliver knew, but there were other mitigating factors. Marcus was mean and cruel and hateful and spiteful, certainly not someone to look up to.

Oliver turned the corner and entered the Great Hall, with its tables dividing Hogwarts students in more ways than one. He stood and surveyed the room. Hufflepuffs clumped together in ever-changing groups, tactile and smiling; Ravenclaws huddled with their books and parchments, exchanging notes and debating vigorously; Slytherins scowled and were surly with eyes suspicious even of their mates. Then there were the Gryffindors, his Gryffindors; open, honest, wary only of the table behind them -- the Slytherins. Certainly, there were bullies among the group, but it was a fun sort of bullying, more pranks than hateful. Indeed, there were bookish sorts, like Percy, who probably would have been just as comfortable in Ravenclaw. What qualities did Oliver share that made him a fit with Gryffindor? The Sorting Hat offered no reasoning, no logical progression from point A to point B. It simply asked some questions and, in the end, asked him where he wanted to be?

'I like lions,' he remembered himself saying. What a silly answer! What a silly, childish thing to tell something as old, wise and powerful as the Sorting Hat.

'Lions, eh?' the Hat had replied. 'Then let it...'

"Out of my way, Gryffindork!" came a voice from behind just before Oliver was pushed out of the doorway by an upper-level student. His heart raced, with both fear and excitement. He looked at the small group of Slytherins that pasted by him, and found he was hoping that each dark-haired bloke he saw was Flint. But none of them were.

As if on cue, Oliver saw Percy craning his neck to try to see him. A smile, a nod, followed by Ethan and Cory, then Bill and... Charlie. Smiles. That's what came to mind when he thought of Gryffindors; smiling, happy, loyal faces of friends who at least _seemed_ happy to see you, who would defend you to the end, no matter if it was your fault.

For a moment, Oliver felt guilty for pondering Marcus Flint so much. Why do that when he had true friends who cared for him? Why even worry about what someone like Marcus thought of him when he had Charlie?

Oliver practically ran over to the Gryffindor table when Percy and Charlie waved him over. He sat in his familiar spot, in between Percy and Charlie and across from Ethan and Cory and welcomed their greetings and their questions. Moreover, when Charlie Weasley ruffled his hair before resuming his conversation with Bill, Oliver felt like he was truly home.


	8. Chapter 8

**8.**  
After dinner, Ethan, Cory, Percy and Oliver left for the Common Room to complete the Potions essay Professor Snape assigned earlier. The four Gryffindor boys' disquisitions were in varying degrees of completion, with Percy's almost complete.

i '... you may go Bill Weasley for extra tutelage ...' /i

Professor Snape's words echoed in Oliver's mind. As Ethan and Cory made their way up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, Oliver slowed down and nudged Percy, who understood his friend's silent request.

"What's the matter, Oliver?" Percy asked in a hushed tone.

"Nothing, really. It's just..." Oliver continued to make sure they were far enough from the others so to be unheard. "Do you think Bill can help me? With the Potions essay, that is?"

Percy pursed his lips as if offended. With a loud tut, he replied, "Never mind Bill. I can help you." To accentuate the notion, Percy seemed to grow taller at the mere notion of someone needing his help.

"How far along are you, then?"

Before Oliver could answer, the stairwell gave an abrupt lurch as it dislodged itself from its landing and began to shift towards the east wing. The sudden movement nearly threw the two Gryffindors off-balance. They held tightly to the rail to prevent themselves from falling to the floor or being thrown over the banister entirely.

"Oh, bother!" Percy cried.

Ethan and Cory had just made it over the top step when the staircase began to reposition itself. They began to point and laugh, calling attention to the small few who were now trapped on the shifting stairs.

"Oh, they'll get there's," Percy warned through a scowl. "Anyway, how finished are you in your essay?"

"Uhm... The ingredients?" Oliver shrugged off Percy's glare of impudence with a weak smile.

"The ingred...! Professor Snape I assigned /I us the ingredients! Oh, really, Oliver... If you're not even going to try--"

The stairs stopped moving as it resettled to its new location. Immediately, Oliver stormed off in a huff.

"I I am /I trying, Percy! That's why I asked for your help. But if you're not going to help me, I'll just have to go to Bill ... or Charlie!"

Percy followed, robes billowing behind him. "Oh, good luck, that! Charlie is pants at Potions. Absolutely dreadful! And he better buck up, too, if he wants to work with dragons."

Without warning, Oliver stopped in his tracks. Percy almost broadsided him, but managed to stop.

"... 'work with dragons' ...?"

Straightening his robes, Percy walked around Oliver towards another set of stairs. "Yes, dragons."

Oliver followed as they walked down the steps to the floor below, Percy's face contorted to show every bit of concern.

"Oh, I do hope this staircase stays still," he said in a pleading tone. "At any rate, Charlie loves dragons. For as long as I can remember he's been fascinated by the beasts. I don't understand why, really. Nothing good can come from messing about with them. Taming dragons, indeed!"

Percy stopped and turned, leaning in as if to whisper a secret in Oliver's ear. His expression never looked more serious than it had at that very moment.

"You-know-who used them. You know... the last time he was powerful."

Oliver's eyes bulged involuntarily. Before he could stop it, an audible gasp escaped his lips.

Percy continued walking down the steps. "Yes. Did horrible things to ensure their obedience to, or so we're told."

But Oliver was not told this. He never even knew that they could be used in a fight or to guard things or anything of the sort. How horrible that those monsters could be wielded like a weapon, and Charlie -- I his /I Charlie -- wanted to work with them, wanted to tame them! What if he was hurt? What if he was eaten? That would be the end of it all, he would never be able to see Charlie again and Charlie would no longer be there to protect him. As if a light switch had been flicked and Oliver's mind illuminated, he decided that, no matter what, he would make sure Charlie I never /I worked with dragons.

The two boys made their way to the portrait of the Fat Lady, who seemed to sway more than usual within her frame.

"You have to be an excellent flyer," Percy continued. "And of course Charlie is that. One of the best here next to Madam Hooch, of course."

"Of course," Oliver replied, though he truly did not know she was the I best /I . In fact, he had never gotten to see her fly seeing as his first day of flying lessons ended with a trip to the hospital wing.

"Oh, that reminds me, Gryffindor Quidditch try-outs are tomorrow. I imagine you'd like to watch?"

Oliver's eyes brightened with excitement. "Oh, boy -- would I!"

The Fat Lady placed both hands on her amble hips. "Well -- hiccup -- if you're just goin' t' stand about all daa-hiccup-ay, I've betterrr thims t'do..." She tried to sound indignant but only came off as silly.

"Easy on the mead next time, I think," Percy said, scowling.

Percy's disapproving tone shocked Oliver. Certainly, the Fat Lady was just a portrait, but it was a piece of essence from a woman who had lived, presumably, a full life. Did portraits deserve the same respect afforded their once-living counterparts? Oliver just assumed so, but Percy, apparently, had different beliefs on the matter.

"Wasspord? -hiccup-"

Percy rolled his eyes. "Fidelloial."

Normally, the Fat Lady would sweep her arm to her side in a grand, almost royal manner. This time, however, she just fell over as the door to the common room swung open. Waiting for them, glee painted on their faces, were Ethan and Cory. Both were red from laughter.

"Oh, it's not as though you two were responsible for The Funny," Percy yelled as he whisked by them.

"Oh, don't be sour, Percy," Ethan said, flashing what Oliver was sure was an attempt at disarming 'puppy-dog' eyes. Instead, it merely inflamed Percy further.

"Sour and sore Percival. I dare say we've found a new nickname, don't you, Oliver?" Cory asked, tossing his arm around Oliver's shoulder.

"Nah," Oliver said. "I rather like 'Percival'. Sounds like pure rubbish."

"Good one, Oliver."

"Yeah, good one, I Olive /I ," Percy fired back, taking a seat in a nearby chair.

Oliver's attention immediately shot to Ethan and Cory, who were staring at one another with gaping mouths.

"Oh, no," Oliver protested. "You most certainly will not!"

He knew where this was going. Tension seemed to build to its utmost, nigh-unendurable peak. Ethan and Cory's backs stretched higher, their lungs filling with oxygen, until finally they released their breath in a thunderous, booming laughter that shook the common room. Or, in the very least, it certainly managed to get everyone's attention.

"Oh, that's just priceless!" Ethan barked. "Perfect, really. 'Olive'! Oh, I love it!"

"No, no, no! Absolutely not!"

Oliver tried to stalk away with as much dignity as possible, much like Percy did. Instead, Cory wrapped both arms around his chest from behind and pulled him back into a playful embrace.

"I don't understand why you lot can't simply use the names we already have rather than making up stupid nicknames and the like."

"Oh, no you don't...! Olive! Ha, ha! It's just too precious!"

Oliver twisted and lurched in an effort to escape.

"Indeed," Percy said from his chair. "If I have to suffer through it, then I don't see why Ickle Olive should be any different."

Cory laughed even louder. "Oh, Ickle Olive! That's too much. Really it is!"

As the struggle continued, Cory's fingers brushed gingerly along Oliver's side, making the boy squeak and leap about.

"Oi, Ethan," Cory called. "I've a feeling good ole Olive here is quite the ticklish sort."

Ethan rubbed his chin with the length of his finger, pondering the notion. "You think so, then? You know, Cory, I believe you are correct. But such a statement requires intense testing."

As if this had been planned long before that day, Ethan addressed the common room like a vaudevillian announcer while Cory hooked his arms over Oliver's to stop him from running off or swinging fists. Oliver was annoyed, but he could not help laugh.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "If I may have you attention, please?"

The bustle of the common room died completely as Ethan drew his wand and pointed to Oliver, still trying to squirm away from Cory's clutches.

"It's been brought to our attention," he continued, "that young Olive, here, may be of the ticklish kind. I say he's of the I very /I ticklish kind. So, we'd like you all to assist us in determining which of us is right."

The room was at a loss of what to do. Some third-year girls leaned into each other and giggled and more than a couple first and second-year girls even blushed. Finally, the whole common room erupted in cachinnations, even Percy joined in.

"You know this means war, right?" Oliver warned behind his smile.

Ethan ruffled Oliver's hair as Cory whispered, "We wouldn't have it any other way... I Olive /I ."

"Step right up and relieve your first-week jitters on this poor, hapless first-year! No kicking, biting, or punching... just" he wiggled his fingers at Oliver, menacingly, "... the tickles!"

Imagine Oliver's surprise when, within seconds, a rather lengthy queue had formed, with Percy first in line, cracking his knuckles.

(line break)

Quarter of midnight and Marcus had never felt sorer than he did right at that moment. Walking down the dungeon corridor to the boys' dormitory, ever muscle in his shoulder and back burned with discomfort. It was just shy of pain, yet he knew he would wake up later with the kind of annoying dull ache that was sure to be there even by the time of his next detention with Professor Snape. Marcus knew he should take a shower before going to bed, but he could not be arsed to do so.

He entered the cellar-like Slytherin common room, far colder than he remembered it ever being. The room was, as expected, empty, save for Drusilla, balled up on the high-back chair that Marcus always associated with Jakob. An afghan draped precariously over her lap threatened to slide completely off. The sight of her stopped Marcus dead in his tracks, as if he had been struck by a physical blow. His head cocked slightly to the side as he took the sight of her in. She was pretty enough, he thought, even though her face was far too round to be allowed. Drusilla's neck was exposed, stretched and lengthened by the manner by which she had fallen asleep and her lips were parted somewhat. Marcus could hear her breathing. It was almost hypnotic. Indeed, he became entranced by the steady rise and fall of her bosom, walking over to her without really realising he was doing so. He leaned over her and noticed that she was shivering, her arms wrapped tightly around her in an attempt to keep warm. Without thinking, Marcus reached down, grabbed the end of the wool coverlet and began to pull it up to her chin.

The shawl met with some resistance as it caught from between her legs. Marcus gave the blanket a wrench far too strong and a book slid from Drusilla's lap, hitting the floor with a bang. Drusilla stirred, smacking her lips gingerly. Her eyes fluttered open before being startled wide.

"Marcus! You scared me," she said, straightening and stretching in the chair. Marcus quickly pulled away, staring intently at the book on the floor. "I was waiting up for you... what time is it?"

He did not answer her, however. His brow knitted once he realised what she had been reading.

"Marcus? Hello? Are you with me?" she asked.

"Mine," was Marcus' only reply, gaze still fixed on the notebook on the floor.

Drusilla followed his gaze and, once she saw the notebook on the floor, she reached down and picked it up. "Oh, yeah. You left it in the library today when you were late for detention. That's why I was waiting up for you, to give it back."

Marcus reached out for the book. His throat tightened when, instead of handing it back to him, Drusilla actually opened it and scowled at the contents.

"I must say your handwriting leaves a lot to be desired. But you're a boy, yeah? Boys are pants at writing. It is an art, you know?" She licked the tip of her index finger and turned a page. "What language is this, by the bye?"

Marcus was dumbstruck. A closely guarded secret of his was out in the open, revealed for further taunting. As though someone had turned on a light switch, the boy had gone from worried to anger in an instant. His chin jutted out, tight yet quivering with rage. Unaware, Drusilla continued to peruse the book, as though it were normal to intrude on someone's person.

"I mean, look right here," she pointed to a passage, and held it for Marcus to see. "I think I know what you're trying to say, but the words -- and some of the letters -- are all..."

"Gimme that!" Marcus barked, snatching the book so furiously that it threatened to break the journal in half. "Who the fuck do you think you are stealing my notes!"

"Ow," Drusilla pulled her hand back, rubbing it with her other. "What? ' Stealing?' Don't be daft, Flint. You left it at the library and I was just--"

"Just thinking you'd have a bit of fun with the idiot, yeah?" Marcus bit back.

Drusilla was truly confused. "... 'having a bit of fun'? Marcus, really, what are you on about?"

Marcus leaned toward her, his expression contorted into one of pure disdain. It made Drusilla draw back into her seat, fearful.

"This is mine, you thieving little slag. Mine! If you ever so much as lay a finger on my property again, I'll... I'll..."

Drusilla's eyes narrowed. She would hardly broker being bullied. "You'll do what, Flint." She nearly spat his last name, matching Flint's scowl with venom of her own.

Marcus looked away for a brief moment, as if mulling over her question. When his eyes met hers again, they were blank and emotionless, as was the tone in his voice. "I'll forget you're a girl."

With that, he walked off, knuckles clenched white around the book.

Drusilla did not turn to watch Marcus as he walked down the stairwell into the boys sleeping quarters. She merely looked at the mantelpiece that adorned the unused fireplace. As frightened as she was of Marcus' rage, she quickly squashed the feeling, replacing with anger -- and a need for payback -- that she doubted she could ever quell.


End file.
